


most tender and terrifying place i know

by ivelostmyspectacles



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: A Leitner Made Them Do It (The Magnus Archives), Awkward Tension, Canon Asexual Character, Developing Relationship, M/M, Making Out, Romance, Season/Series 01, Soft Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Soft Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Tenderness, after the fact lol
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-16
Updated: 2021-02-16
Packaged: 2021-03-17 22:26:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29479158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ivelostmyspectacles/pseuds/ivelostmyspectacles
Summary: “Can I kiss you?” Martin asks softly, and Jon thinks,oh God, yes.
Relationships: Jonathan Sims/Martin Blackwood
Comments: 20
Kudos: 189





	most tender and terrifying place i know

**Author's Note:**

> rated as is because it is a Leitner, and Jon starts off feeling cornered before he gets Leitner'd too. Martin makes his position very clear and is very kind! But it's just typical Leitner mild dubcon/mindfuckery vibes before it takes over completely

“Statement…” Jon struggles for words, struggling– like he has been– to find the proper way to work through all this mess. The best way to become a better Archivist, to sort out all the chaos that Gertrude had left behind. He feels bad for her, truly, but he can’t help feeling a bit bad for _himself_ as well. If she had only bothered to organize this place _slightly_ more efficiently before dying… but that’s uncharitable. Jon knows it is. He’s just stressed, overwhelmed with the workload of a promotion he hadn’t anticipated, and the expectation in Elias’s eyes whenever he drops in to check on the new Archivist. But, then again, it’s only stress. He can handle it. It’s only stress; it isn’t like he’s _dead,_ he thinks wryly, and then winces over that, too. Christ. “… pause,” he finishes pathetically, and presses on the stop button.

And then, damningly, Jon allows himself to put his face in his hands, glasses shoved up into his hair, and scrub the exhaustion pulling at his eyes. He doesn’t have time to rest. He doesn’t have time for _pausing,_ he doesn’t have time for stress. Maybe he’s been pulling more hours than necessary, but he’s swamped, and he doesn’t have time to be _tired._ Even when he completely is.

“Knock knock.” The words accompany two quieter knocks to the door: Martin’s voice, and Jon barely has enough time to straighten up and fix his glasses where they fall, askew, back to the bridge of his nose. Then Martin is letting himself in with an armful of mismatched books and tattered papers. Jon can _feel_ his blood pressure rise. That probably isn’t a good thing, is it? “Sorry,” Martin says, looking between Jon and the old tape recorder. “Were you recording?”

“Yes,” he says, straightening the statement research. His archives will be tidy, he swears it. “I do have to do that, now and again.”

“Yeah,” Martin agrees, “but I just mean, you weren’t the last time I was in here? When you told me to find copies of those books in the library…”

“Which was…” He twitches his sleeve, glancing at the watch. “... nearly two hours ago. I can’t imagine the library suddenly adopted a worse filing system than we have.” Martin’s face falls slightly, and something in Jon’s head whispers _uncharitable_ again, and again. He doesn’t listen to it. He can’t, anyway; he is their _boss,_ something Tim is so very insistent on pointing out, and his own repeated rebuttals of after work drinks are in place for a reason. They’re co-workers, and Jon will have these archives stay professional.

“Yeah, well, _no.”_ Martin laughs sheepishly, hugging his stack of books to his chest. “But some of them were kind of spread out a bit. A lot. Or unlisted? We couldn’t exactly figure it out. And then one of the researchers started getting a bit unruly–”

 _“Thank_ you,” Jon interrupts, pulling his recorder closer. He has to make a good faith effort for at least looking like he’d been doing something. “Martin. You can leave them there.” He nods at the least cluttered part of his desk. “I’ll get through them before I leave tonight.”

“Course.” He pretends he doesn’t notice how Martin sounds a little downtrodden. All that matters is the archives, and these statements. “Just let me know if you need any help? Or need me to look for something else. It won’t take two hours again.” Martin laughs a little, dropping the pile of books onto the desk. It goes with a thud and a small puff of dust, which he waves away and straightens the stack. “Probably.”

“That’s encouraging,” Jon mutters under his breath, but then, “I’ll let you know, but I can’t imagine that… Martin?” For a moment, he thinks Martin looks… odd. Off, even, but maybe the long days and old statements are getting to him. He doesn’t believe in this stuff, not _this_ type of stuff, but Martin looks… not right, when he pulls his hands back from straightening his deliveries. But just for a second. Because then Jon repeats his name, and he startles back to reality with color building on his cheeks, finally meeting Jon’s eyes again.

“Err… sorry,” he says. “Sorry. I… um.” He licks his lips and takes a step back. “Not sure what that was?”

Jon really doesn’t need this distraction. Or the paranoia. The spiderwebs in his office give him enough grief even _without_ sleepless nights or Martin acting strange. “Right. Maybe you’re due for a break,” he says.

“Yeah.” Another step back, and Martin bumps into the bookcase. He rights himself, and blushes deeper, babbling on, “maybe so. Um, maybe a cuppa. Do you–”

“No.”

“Right. Cool, fine. Maybe Sasha. Or Tim!”

“Maybe,” Jon replies. Right, he doesn’t know what’s crawled over Martin this time, but it isn’t _completely_ unlike him to talk himself into a frenzy. If he’s going to be flustered over… whatever it is this time, though, it’d be better for _both_ of them if he’d just go back to his own desk to do it.

“Maybe,” Martin repeats, and finally steps towards the door. “Either way, I guess, ha. _I_ fancy a cuppa, anyway.”

“Right.”

Rightfully, Martin should leave his office, go back to work– or tea, apparently– and Jon will get back on with finishing off this recording before tackling the stack he’s just been brought. And he’s just on his way to that, finger held aloft over the record button on his tape again, when he notices that Martin’s just _stopped_ in the doorway, back to him. Just… there, still.

Jon sighs. “Something else, Ma–”

“… I kind of fancy you, too.”

Jon… he doesn’t hear that right. Certainly he doesn’t, because… because there’s just… no way! Martin had not just said he _fancied_ him. He really _must_ need sleep. Or maybe he’s already dreaming. He unobtrusively pinches the outside of his wrist and asks, “beg your pardon?”

He doesn’t wake up, and Martin says it again: “I like you, Jon.” Jon stares on as he continues, turning, “I mean, I have. For awhile. Since that day– you know, our first day? Down here? I’m pretty sure I knew of you before then, too, but I mean, that was just more, like, _research._ We didn’t really _know_ each other. But we do now,” Martin says softly. Instead of leaving, like before, he takes a step back towards Jon. Alight with, he doesn’t know, _gentle reverence._ “And you’re brilliant. Y–You’re determined and smart and– and, Christ, your voice, when you do the statements…”

Jon tears his gaze away, down to the statement laid in front of him. He can read every word in perfect clarity. He even glances over the top of his glasses to see if the cognition changes, but the letters turn blurry like they should. Is it even _true_ that you can’t read in a dream? He seems like he’s done it before–

“Your mouth is lovely. I’ve thought about it a lot, your lips. Kissing them–” Something swoops in Jon’s stomach, not altogether bad but not precisely _good._ “Kissing you.” It’s the same feeling he’s always gotten when he’s left floundering after a romantic confession, confused and– and overwhelmed– romantic– _Martin–_

This isn’t _university._ This is the _archives._ “Martin.” He gapes, statement entirely forgotten now. “This is– _entirely_ inappropriate–” 

Well done, Jon. That doesn’t begin to _remotely_ cover it. 

“I’m actually a decent snog,” Martin is saying. “I mean, I’ve been told, a bit. Like how d’you even know if you’re actually a good snog? But I– I could definitely kiss you. And it’d be okay. Would it be okay?” he asks.

Jon finally finds himself. _“Martin,”_ he splutters, appalled, and pushes away from his desk. He gets to his feet and Martin is another step closer. He isn’t– he isn’t _unaware_ of that, eyes flicking to the door that’s already swung shut again. He’s… he’s definitely feeling _cornered,_ but, again, that’s familiar. He’s never known how to react to these situations and he knows Martin wouldn’t– wouldn’t _do_ anything… untoward.

 _How do you know?_ something taunts. _You don’t know him. You’re not friends. You’re just co-workers. You’ve made sure of that._

No. No. They weren’t friends, but Jon trusted him enough. Even Tim, overzealous in all of his teasing and occasional overstep of boundaries, wouldn’t do anything– not like this. Something has to be wrong.

That’s it. Because something _does_ have to be wrong, doesn’t it? This is the _archives._ Things can go _wrong._ “Martin,” he repeats, trying to put some authority into his voice even as Martin steps closer to his desk. He steps away. “I don’t know what’s going on, but–” He glances to the door again. He just needs to get out of here, and divert this to… someone else. _Anyone_ else.

Martin must see him tracking his escape path, because he goes _stricken,_ twisting his hands into his jumper. “Oh, no, I’m not– Jon, I wouldn’t _do_ anything. I wouldn’t _hurt_ you, I swear. I just– I just want to– you know.” He gestures vaguely. “Feel your mouth. Or your hands. And touch you a bit, but nothing– nothing _bad–”_ he stresses. “I could just hold you. And know you. And take care of you, yeah? You deserve to be taken care of.”

Jon is… _reeling,_ frankly. But oddly enough, something in him settles down; maybe it’s a memory, flashbacks to nights with Georgie back in uni, before the screaming matches and nitpicking callouts. Cuddling on her shitty sofa, tangled up in each other. Not at all sexual, thank Christ, but just… warm. Cozy, content. A feeling so foreign, tucked away in these archives the past few weeks, that Jon barely remembers what it’s even _like_ to be wanted.

… but this still isn’t right. “Martin,” he repeats, stepping around his desk. He’s lost a bit of the fear. Bewilderment reigns supreme, but he trusts him. “I don’t know what’s happened, but I _assure_ you, we’ll get you back to your usual self–”

“But this is me,” Martin says softly. Another step. Jon moves back in response and _damn,_ their research. His hip drags against it and it all goes toppling to the floor before he can even make a grab for one sheaf of paper. Martin doesn’t seem to notice. “It’s always been me. Why do you think I do things for you?”

“Because–” He stares down at the mess of paperwork, and then hurriedly starts to gather it up. “I’m your boss–”

“And an arse,” Martin says, and Jon almost glares, but it isn’t _unkind,_ the way he says it. “Would anyone do _anything_ for someone so prickly if they _didn’t_ love you?”

Love… he _loves…_ oh, _Christ._ This is wrong. This is so definitely wrong, he reaffirms, snatching up another one of the fallen books, and he should… should… “… um.” He should do something about this. What, exactly, is another question entirely, but… damn. He shoves all the paperwork into a messy pile and deposits it back on his desk. “Martin…”

“It’s _okay,_ Jon.”

And then, quite simply, Jon believes him. 

“Right,” he says. His hands flutter along the front of his shirt, fidgeting like Martin is, and he wonders if… if maybe Martin had been _serious._ He _liked_ him. Loved him, even. A foreign concept, the idea of… being loved, again. And kissing– something so… well, he’s never been great at it. Always a little uncoordinated, messy and awkward. Not bad, necessarily, with the people he trusts, and he… yes, he trusts Martin.

He wonders if Martin really wants to kiss him.

“Sorry if I, um, _startled_ you,” Martin apologizes again. “I just felt– I, I had to say it. Things are so weird here, and–”

“They are,” Jon agrees quickly. Martin marvels at him like he’s said something odd, but he’s just agreeing with him. Is that so strange? “Er, I mean. It’s the archives.”

“It is,” Martin says. “And you’re… _the_ Archivist.”

“I am…”

“… and I really like you,” Martin says, matter of fact. It doesn’t change the way his face is still slightly nervous– unsure– and it doesn’t change the weird sensation that settles into Jon’s stomach and lingers there. Not good, not bad. Butterflies, maybe? He hasn’t– he hasn’t felt something like that in so long. Martin _likes_ him. Twice he’s said it now, so it must be true– 

But what does that mean for them? Where does that lead? “So…” Jon starts, tentative. 

“So.”

“Where– where exactly does that… go? From here?” he clarifies.

“I mean.” Martin gives a tiny smile, and Jon’s left looking at his mouth. A good snog, he’d said. Jon still doesn’t know much about that, doesn’t have much to compare to, but Martin’s lips… he looks like he would be a good kisser. Jon just figures he has a fair bit of practice. And would probably be really nice at it. 

Martin takes a step forward; Jon doesn’t take one back, still somewhat transfixed with his mouth, and the way his lips form around the words when he says, “I guess, like– you only live once, right?”

Christ, _that’s_ their argument. But Jon finds himself smiling back at it, the joke, responding with a joke of his own. “Unless you’re a cat.”

Martin frowns. It pinches the lines at his forehead. Jon wants to smooth them away, and he only just stops himself from jerking forward. “What?”

“Just, uh… nine lives? Cats have nine lives,” he explains, pathetically, and itches to reach out and touch him.

“Oh.”

“I just–”

“Ridiculous man,” Martin interrupts fondly, crosses the office, and holds out his hand to Jon.

Jon takes it. He barely hesitates, reaching out to slot their fingers together, and lets Martin pull him forward the last few inches between them. Maybe he is ridiculous. But moreover he thinks it’s more ridiculous that he hasn’t really _noticed_ Martin before now, hasn’t taken the time to really take him in, and it’s a shame. Because there is a lot of Martin to take in. A head taller than Jon, a rounded jaw peppered with freckles. And his eyes look so _green,_ Jon wonders if there’s new lighting in his office. And he’s never noticed the subtle wave in Martin’s hair, or how soft it looks to touch, and how much he thinks he’d like to, right now. How gently Martin’s hands hold Jon’s. 

“Can I kiss you?” Martin asks softly, and Jon thinks, _oh God, yes._

But he doesn’t say that, just stretches up to plant his lips against Martin’s mouth before he can lose his nerve, before either of them can lose their nerve. He wants this. He thinks he might _need_ it, oddly enough, and the noise of surprise Martin makes against his mouth spurs it on, warm and buzzing… comfortable. Kissing Martin feels _right._

Now that is a thought Jon hasn’t had in a very long time. Not– not kissing Martin in particular, of course, but just… _kissing._ Intimacy in that way and– and Jon’s not used to it. And he thinks, maybe, he’s missed it, a bit. Georgie had been– well, she hadn’t been the _last,_ but she’d been his one and only proper relationship and that had been, what, fifteen odd years ago? Christ, a lifetime ago. Jon deserves this. He does.

And Martin is a good snog. As much as… as much as Jon knows the difference, really, but it’s _nice._ His mouth is warm, and careful against Jon’s, something he appreciates. Martin isn’t pushing him, isn’t… overenthusiastic in ways that would panic him in any other scenario. He’s _gentle,_ impossibly, and, God, Jon doesn’t know how Martin _does_ that. Takes all of his nervous, fumbling energy and turns it into… into his hand settling along Jon’s jaw. His big hand– practically caressing all of Jon’s cheek as he sweeps his thumb along his jawline and that’s– that’s _nice,_ feeling so _small_ next to Martin. Small, and safe here. He’s actually… safe here.

Huh. That’s nice, too.

Martin pulls back first, insofar as he moves enough to be able to talk, to look at Jon. And he’s a little… glassy-eyed, and his cheeks are definitely pink. And he has so many freckles, being this close, Jon realizes. How had he never noticed how many freckles Martin had? He wants to reach out and touch them, and Martin’s got his hand on Jon’s face, so why shouldn’t Jon touch him, too? So he does, hesitantly reaching up and placing his hand there.

Martin breathes in at the touch, slow and deep. For a second, Jon thinks he’s overstepped– because he doesn’t know the steps, never has been good at gauging these sorts of things– but then Martin leans his cheek into his hand and _smiles,_ and oh. Oh, Jon is ogling.

“That’s nice,” Martin says, closing his eyes. He has freckles on his _eyelids._ Jon wants to kiss them. “Your hands, Jon. They’re lovely.”

“Are they?” he asks without meaning to. Martin opens his eyes, and Jon blusters on, smoothing the pad of his finger over a cluster of freckles. “There’s just… calluses.” And not much else, if he’s being honest. His hands are incredibly nondescript. _He’s_ incredibly nondescript. He’d never put much thought into his own body, but now, he’s wondering…

“It’s not that bit,” Martin says thoughtfully, and rests his hand over Jon’s. “I mean, calluses are fine. But it’s just more… hmm. When you want to be touched by one person, so bad, and then that person actually does? And now you are, so…”

Jon frowns. “Why do you want to be touched by _me?”_ Unfathomable. Shouldn’t it be uncomfortable? In the moment, Jon wants _Martin’s_ hands, attentive and warm, against his face, his body, his skin. But Martin wanting the same? Jon doesn’t know. He doesn’t know.

“Because I love you.”

Is it so simple? Jon… wants to believe it is. He wants to believe that, so he stretches up on tiptoes to kiss him again.

How they’ve come to this, Jon thinks he’ll never know that, either. But he doesn’t mind, and he doesn’t think he even needs to know.

And Martin is, God, he’s so gentle. Georgie had been fine, lovely, but a whirlwind on her worst days. (For that matter, Jon had been much the same, in different ways.) But Martin takes his face in his hands like he’s holding onto the world, and Jon tries to reciprocate, tries to do something with his own hands that doesn’t feel like flailing, but he doesn’t really know how to be romantic. Or maybe he’s just forgotten. Maybe he needs to relearn.

Martin slides his fingers around to the back of Jon’s head, and Jon melts at the hands in his hair. The hand at the base of his neck makes him feel something, not quite a desire, but definite further curiosity. He puts his hands on Martin’s chest, and feels him smile against his mouth.

He’s just settling into that when Martin’s _teeth_ graze his lip, not quite a bite but a definite nip, and he gasps before he can stop himself. And, hell, when had he _been_ so needy in that way? He’d experienced that before. Biting wasn’t a revolutionary concept, and still the jolt of surprise… the wonder, and the way it was threatening to settle low in his stomach is… a lot.

Martin pulls back, this time far enough to look at him properly. His face is red, and his lips are pink. And the freckles– “Are you okay?” he asks, worry creeping into his eyes. “Is that– was that okay?” 

“Yes,” he says quickly, so quickly. Shock aside, he thinks he’d… he _definitely_ wants Martin to do it again. He wants Martin to do it on something other than his lips, move away from his mouth… “Er, you startled me, is all.” He licks his lips and tilts his head to the side, reminded of all the university days with love bites on Georgie’s neck. And vice versa. He wonders if Martin would like that. He wonders if Martin would like to do that. “You could… again. If you wanted,” he adds, exposing a bit more of his neck. He barely stops himself from gesturing uselessly at it, fumbling.

But Martin’s eyes light up and he nods, pecking a quick kiss to Jon’s jaw. It’s so quick and feather light that Jon _laughs,_ and then Martin clarifies, “hickeys are okay? You’re– I mean, I’d love to put my mark on you. I want– I want people to _see.”_

He wonders if anyone else thrills at the mention of a hickey, at spotting one on another’s neck. A private thing exposed to everyone and– and Jon would very much like to be that center of attention, for once. To say that he can. To say that Martin wants him to be, and that he wants Martin to… want him. To have him. Being with someone, belonging to someone, sounds _lovely._

Jon nods, flushed, and tangles his hands in Martin’s hair when he messily starts to suck a bruise at his throat. His hair smells like… it smells nice, and he thinks maybe he can smell tea in general, but maybe that’s just his imagination. Martin made tea and tea was comforting, ergo, Martin was comforting. Comfortable associations.

His knees buckle when Martin bites near his jugular, and then again when he licks and does it _again._ Jon feels dizzy, and wishes they were sitting. This would be so much easier if… but it’s far away. He doesn’t want to interrupt. Even if he can feel the wet heat of Martin’s mouth staining at the collar of his shirt now. So he reaches out behind him instead, feeling for the wall he knows is somewhat close by. His fingertips brush it, so he urges Martin a step back, pulling him with him. And then another, until he can brace a hip there and sag against the wall when Martin gives another final suck at what’s going to be a spectacular bruise, and starts to kiss his way down Jon’s shoulder.

He reaches up to touch that bruise in the making, the damp still lingering there, and marvels. It’s true, then. Martin really does want him. The thought is so warm and heavy in his chest now, where Martin’s touching and kissing where his collarbone is. And Jon wishes that he weren’t wearing so many layers, because this would be so much more simple. Martin could kiss wherever he liked, and Jon wouldn’t be aching to feel it over his sweater vest. But he is. Aching.

His tie is straightened, the barest pressure of Martin’s hand against the thing as he smooths it out. And then Martin continues to slide his hands down, mapping the planes of Jon’s body. Jon likes it, likes the feeling of Martin’s hands, and wants to tell him he wouldn’t mind feeling them all over his body, if he could be so accommodating, but, ah. The feeling from earlier is definitely… definitely a want now, actual desire, obtrusive now between his legs, and that’s, it’s… hm.

Martin’s hands are on his hips, which is suddenly altogether too far south despite his previous line of thought. Jon squeezes his thighs together slightly, experimental, and feels his face burn hot in wonder and shame. He quickly raises a hand to tap twice on Martin’s shoulder.

“Hm?” Martin straightens up from where he’d been nosing at his jaw again. There’s saliva on his lips. He’s just a bit messy.

Jon reaches up to thumb it away. “I, um.” He definitely wants Martin. He wants to kiss him and touch him and be the recipient of that, too, but he doesn’t want… he doesn’t think he wants this, the throbbing between his legs. It hits him with a trickle of anxiety, and he doesn’t want that. Everything is so much more simple without it, and he doesn’t feel like he’s missing anything, regardless. “I liked this. _Like_ this,” he adjusts, as Martin cups his hand to his cheek again. “For now?”

“Oh. Yes!” Martin says quickly. The hand that’s still on Jon’s hip shifts to wrap around his waist instead. “I mean, I’m more than perfectly willing to just do this. Or if there’s anything you want. All you have to do is ask.”

“Can you kiss me again, then? If that’s–”

“That’s okay,” Martin agrees, and does.

He registers the knock on his door too late, and one day he’s really going to have to address that no one waits for permission to come in in the first place, he swears he will– but Martin doesn’t pull away, and there’s nowhere for Jon to go. And he doesn’t want to. He really doesn’t want to.

“Jo– Jesus.”

He peeks around Martin’s shoulder as Sasha stops in the doorway, sheaf of paper in one hand, mug in the other. And he’s vaguely _disgruntled,_ even though Martin doesn’t pay her any mind, because she just _gapes_ from the doorway like she’s seen– not a ghost, since those aren’t real, and the stories they get here are much worse, anyway. 

_“You two?”_ she says, then, louder, something excitable in her voice. But then a pause, as Martin chuckles and echoes _“us two,”_ and Jon leans his head into the press of Martin’s temple. “Wait,” Sasha continues. “Wait, no. No, no. This is not a ‘Jonathan Sims and Martin Blackwood’ thing. No way.”

“It is,” Martin protests, finally pulling back to look around at her. “It– It can be. I mean, look, I know I’m not _Tim,_ but–”

“Tim,” Sasha repeats. “I can’t be seeing this. Tim!” she yells, ducking out of Jon’s office. She leaves the door open when she goes, still calling for Tim. 

Jon is _really_ going to have to have a talk with them about proper workplace etiquette. Small wonders they managed to get anything done around here.

Still, what a mess. He sighs, resting his head back against the wall this time. “Sorry.” His assistants, his apologies to make. Even though Martin is his assistant, too. But _he’s_ not the one making mistakes this time.

“No, we’ve been busy.” Martin takes his hands in lieu of holding onto anything else, _doing_ anything else. It’s still nice. Jon’s hands fit so well there. “All I really meant to do was bring you the books you requested–”

“I needed the break,” Jon interrupts, before Martin can blame himself. “I… _really_ needed this break.” More than he could have known, honestly. _How_ had he not known?

“I mean, you look like you could _always_ use a break, Jon.”

It’s not a positive thing, he _knows;_ Martin’s time is meant to be a rebuke, same as usual with matters like these. And he deserves that. But something in him can’t be offended over it, the part of him that’s still warm and cozy and comfortable as he continues to hold Martin’s hand. “Martin. Is that a proposition?” he teases.

Martin’s eyes go wide. “No! Er, unless– unless you _want_ it to be?”

“I was joking,” he relents. “But I wouldn’t mind doing this again, anyway.”

“Oh thank God. It’s just– I _really_ liked kissing you. I’ve wanted to do it for– for such a long time, actually–”

“Something’s wrong with them.” Sasha’s voice is outside his office _again._ “I don’t know what, but–” And there she is, with absolutely no knocking this time, pulling Tim in by the hand.

“Oh, fantastic,” Jon mutters.

 _“Seriously,_ Sash, it couldn’t wait ten seconds? I literally could have shoved the rest of my sandwich _in_ my mouth instead of, you know, dropping it on the floor–”

“Oh, forget your lunch, Jon and Martin are–” She looks at them both, then, frowning when she finds that they’re just staring at _her._ “Wait.”

“Need something?” Jon asks, dryly.

“They were making out.” She turns to appeal to Tim directly again, and Jon sighs sharply.

“Sasha–”

“They were _making out,”_ Tim repeats, like he’s feeling out the words on his tongue. “Jonathan Sims. And Martin Blackwood. Come on.”

“Hey,” Martin protests. Jon doesn’t bother.

 _“Really,_ is this, like, _hazing?”_ Tim continues. “Why am I being punked? Is it punk Tim day and no one told me?”

“Tim.”

“I mean, you _have_ to know even I’m not going to fall for–”

 _“Tim,”_ Sasha repeats, shaking his elbow. “He’s got a hickey. Jon Sims, our boss, _actually_ has a hickey coming in.”

Damn. Jon raises his hand to cover the mark, realizing how _stupid_ he’d been in thinking they were _nice._ And they were, they are, this is, but he’ll never hear the end of it now– 

“Wait… _do_ you?” Tim asks, taking a step forward. Jon can’t go any further back. “Wait, I’m _not_ being punked? You were _making out??_ Boss! And Martin!” His attention swivels to him. _“How?”_

“Why is everyone so _convinced_ I can’t snog someone?” Martin protests. Jon squeezes his fingers and Martin looks over at him, eyes going soft again.

“Holy _shit.”_

 _“Tim,”_ Sasha says, urgent, “there’s books. On his desk. I’m pretty sure Martin brought them up not long ago.”

“Books…”

“Leitners? Could it– maybe it’s a Leitner?”

“Are you telling me there’s makeout Leitners?”

“How should I know?”

“D’you think there’s _sex_ Leitners? Christ,” Tim laughs, “can you imagine if we’d walked in them _bonking?”_

“Tim!” Jon interrupts, and, arousal still simmering low beneath his skin, he’s faintly horrified. He wouldn’t– in his _office–_ they probably would have locked the door at least, wouldn’t have they?? “That’s _completely_ out of line–!”

“I mean, _I_ wasn’t just snogging my employees,” Tim says, nudging his shoulder. “But I mean, Jesus, what do we do with this?” He goes to lean over the small pile of books that Jon had hastily dropped back onto his desk. “If it is, how d’we know which one it is?”

“Well, don’t _touch_ them,” Sasha says quickly. “I’ll just, er, get Elias, maybe?”

“Wait–” Martin starts.

“Don’t get Elias,” Jon says, too, because that’s… he’s, he’s pretty sure this goes against _rules._ Absolutely sure, and he pulls away from Martin only then, with the looming threat of… whatever Elias might say. Tim and Sasha were all well and good, but Elias could, theoretically, _fire_ him and Martin both. “He doesn’t need to know–”

“Jon, if it’s a Leitner, he _definitely_ needs to know. And, if it isn’t, I’m _sorry,”_ Sasha stresses, “but this is the archives. Things _happen,_ and you're being super out of character.”

“Yeah.” Tim squints a little at one of the spines of a book, and Jon wants to tell them to mind their own business. “Listen, I adore you both, I would die for either of you– you know this– but _if_ it’s a Leitner…”

He finally breaks, exasperated. “I _can_ kiss someone without the aid of a supernaturally possessed _book!”_

“Probably!” Tim agrees. “Maybe. Buuuut you are acting kinda weird. And there’s books. And I’ve never actually seen you kiss anyone, soo, I don’t know…”

“I’m not kissing you,” Jon says, flat.

“Okay, if this is a makeout Leitner,” Tim says, jabbing his finger towards the books, “I’m gonna be _really_ insulted about that, boss!”

“I’m getting Elias,” Sasha repeats. “Sorry.” Another apology, and then she’s out the door _again,_ before Jon can stop her.

“Sash– ngh.” There’s a migraine coming on. He can _feel_ it. He pinches the bridge of his nose and laments how the rush of feeling he’d had when it was just him, and Martin, _here,_ touching, kissing, is gone. Or getting there. He wishes they’d leave them to it again, but at this point, it’s probably best to just… tell Martin to go back to work, too.

But he doesn’t want to. He really doesn’t want to.

He just smiles apologetically at Martin instead, and feels a little strange in recognizing the flip-flop in his chest when Martin smiles back.

“God, you two are dopey,” Tim says suddenly, after what feels like a second but is maybe longer. “Like, _drunk_ affectionate. It’s in your eyes.” He gestures between them. “It’s cute and all, but… kind of freaky, actually. Boss being… _soft.”_

 _“Thank_ you, Tim.”

Tim holds up his hands in surrender. But he isn’t leaving, either. He’s just… _hovering,_ Jon realizes, playing this off with humor but there’s worry in his eyes. Because they think him and Martin have gotten their hands on a _Leitner._

Christ. Jon sighs. It’s going to be a long afternoon.

Martin wraps his arms around his waist, without asking and _bold,_ and Jon… likes it. God, of course he does. It’s protective, and safe, and warm. It’s Martin.

Jon leans in.

  
  


It was a Leitner.

Jon is… _horrified,_ from the moment the curse wears off. 

Burning had worked on this particular one, Elias has said. It hadn’t felt like fire. It had felt like ice, bitter and unyielding for the briefest moment when it must have… released them? And then he’d just felt… empty. For a single other moment. And then… then he had been horrified. 

It was just– how did you come back from that?? How did you– _Christ,_ and _Martin,_ even– if it had been _Tim,_ maybe… no, Jon doubted he could have even joked about it, then. But _Martin…_

Elias had sent them both home, which had been just as well, because Jon hadn’t been able to look at Martin and Martin hadn’t seemed able to do much more himself. If their working relationship had been tenuous at best before, what _now…_

A veritable _nightmare,_ one that had kept Jon awake most of the night. But it doesn’t keep him away from work in the morning, because, well… he’s the Archivist. He can’t just stay home because of a little _kiss._

It was more than a little kiss, though, and he knows it.

Tim greets him with a “morning, lover boy,” the absolute arse. Not one other day would he be early for work except _now–_ but maybe it’s good. Maybe that’s fine. A distraction, as they all settle back into their daily regime. They have to be _normal._ They have to be.

And so, like usual, Jon hides away in his office and works.

He can’t avoid Martin forever, he knows, but maybe just another hour, or two, just until he figures out what he’s supposed to say, having… _done_ that, with his _assistant–_

There’s a light knock at his door, hesitant and followed by a pause, and Jon’s stomach swoops when he _knows_ it’s Martin out there. He still doesn’t know what he’s going to say. He doesn’t know how he’s supposed to _handle_ this, even though they are adults, and they should be able to handle this without fuss. Much fuss.

“Hey,” Martin greets softly, not waiting for permission to enter. _Normalcy._ He’s got his hands wrapped around a mug of tea, and Jon tries not to think about how intimately he can remember wanting those hands to be wrapped around _him_ instead. “Um. Tea. I thought you might…”

“Yes,” Jon agrees. He is… he’s parched, a bit, mouth bone dry after finishing the last of his water earlier. But he’d been too stubborn to leave his office for anything short of, he doesn’t know, the _supernatural,_ so he’s been pushing through. But tea does sound lovely. “That’d be great. Thank you, Martin.”

“Great.” Martin nods, and carefully crosses his office to set down the mug. “Here you go. Um. Piping hot.”

“Lovely.” His tone comes out so dry that he wants to flinch. Martin fidgets, and– Christ, this is terrible. 

“Yep.”

It’s so _awkward,_ even to Jon, who has to admit he doesn’t always ‘read the room’ as well as he might have. “Martin…”

“I’m _so_ sorry,” Martin interrupts. “Jon, I–”

“No, it’s not…”

“I don’t know _what_ I was thinking– I mean, I mean, I _wasn’t,_ was I–”

“It was the book,” Jon adds quickly. “For, er, both of us–”

“I know, I know. It’s–” Martin’s hands are twisting at the front of his jumper. It looks soft, and warm. Cozy. Comfortable. “I still– _I…_ started it. I touched the book first and then I– Christ, Jon, I’m so sorry. I’m _so_ sorry.”

“It got me, too,” Jon reminds him. He doesn’t want to. He wants to even less than he might have normally wanted to. He doesn’t want to _think_ about another Leitner laying claim on him, doesn’t want to think about his autonomy being wrenched away. Even if it had been quite nice, in this scenario. “I… I reciprocated, as well, so, uh, on– on that regard, I apologize as well–”

“It’s not _your_ fault.”

“It’s not yours.” Jon wants to fidget, wants _anything_ to do with his hands but he can only shift paper so much. He doesn’t dare to do anything else, though. And he’s so aware of the bruise on his neck, that _hickey,_ so dark and… and just _there,_ and he feels like that’s the only thing Martin is staring at, even if he isn’t. But he probably is. He’s had to have noticed. How could he _not?_ “It was just– a freak accident.” He’s trying to make this better. He _is._ “Nothing… nothing we could have done, right?”

“Right,” Martin says immediately. He actually says it so fast it kind of startles both of them, and then he’s left floundering in the silence again. “I just… I’m sorry it was you. I mean– it could have been anyone else? Maybe? I, I didn’t try to kiss Tim or Sasha, but, I don’t know…”

Jon smiles, wry. “I suppose we just got lucky.” Martin’s eyes go _wide,_ and Jon stammers as he catches the double entendre. And the weight of the words, really, after everything. “I– I just mean–”

“I know–”

“I was joking–”

“– yeah, I’m–”

“– just eldritch chance–” 

“– of course–”

They both sort of _pause,_ then, giving up in talking over one another. It’s… Christ, it’s terrible. He finally reaches for that mug of tea, prepared to scald his tongue if only it stops him having to say anything else.

This is so ridiculous it should be laughable. Jon only wishes that it were.

“I’m glad we’re… okay, though,” Martin says quietly. “Um. It– clearly this wasn’t… _good,”_ he says, like he has to force the word out. “But, with a Leitner… we’re lucky we didn’t try to kill each other or something, right?”

“Right.” And he is right. Romance, it’s… it’s very _tame._ Awkward, but safe. How very safe… Jon shakes his head to chase away the thought. He doesn’t need to think about it. He can’t. So he draws himself up after another mouthful of tea and continues, “and the book is gone, now. So we won’t have to worry about it again.”

“Yeah…” And is it just him, or does Martin sound _sad_ about that? No– _stop it._ He wonders if the effects are lingering. They must be. “Yeah,” Martin says again, and nods. “We’re– well, we’re safe, as much as we can be? Again. So that’s good.”

“It is. And,” Jon adds awkwardly, “I, er, would rather not see our working relationship ultimately change because of this, but if you need some time away from the archives–” _from me–_ “I completely understand. Elias has said he’ll sanction your working research for awhile again, if you’d prefer–”

“Oh, God, no,” Martin says quickly. “I mean, this is– this is _awkward,_ but I– I’d rather keep working with you. And Sasha, and Tim, just– the archives. I’m happy here? Er, still happy. No matter about… all of this.” He frowns. “I just mean– _obviously_ it matters, but I… I’m okay. If you’re okay.”

“I’m okay.” 

“Okay.”

… _then_ Martin cracks an almost wary smile, and Jon has to breathe out something like a laugh as well. Something shifts. Martin relaxes, stops twisting his hands in his sweater, and Jon stops looking, and goes back to his paperwork.

“Well.”

_“Yeah.”_

“Thank you for the tea– oh, hold on. I had– I actually have a…” He starts rummaging for one of the pre-recorded statements. Tapes, so many tapes. “There’s a follow-up, a graduate from a university that I was hoping one of you could find–”

“Oh?” Martin leans in. “What for?”

“Something about– er, sleep studies? Which basically tells you the accuracy of the statement in the first place, but– oh, here. I’ve circled the names I need phoned from the transcript.”

“Great.” Martin takes the tape, and the papers, thumbing through the first few pages. “Just a few? I’ll have it done soon as possible. And, oh, I’m still trying to find more about that McMillan disappearance but…” He gestures vaguely. “It’s a work in progress, still.”

“Well, I honestly didn’t expect much resolution. It _is_ forty years old. But let me know if anything crops up.”

“Will do.” Martin hesitates, and Jon doesn’t look up. He can’t. “So, I’ll get these phone calls made. Let Sasha know if you need me?”

“I will,” Jon promises. “Thank you, Martin.”

“Right. Back soon!”

… and Jon still breathes a sigh of relief when Martin goes, when the door clicks firmly shut behind him. It should feel safe, now, the discomfiture of the situation safely back outside of his office. And it… it just doesn’t, and Jon raises his head to frown at his closed door like he doesn’t know the reason.

He’d felt what it was like being in someone else’s arms again, drawn into their orbit and pulled away from the uncertainty of their world. And that someone had happened to be Martin, and Jon… Jon isn’t going to be able to forget it. He knows he isn’t going to be able to forget it.

But he has to. He _has_ to.

He smooths his hands across his tidy paperwork, and tries to get back to work.

  
  
_to be close to you, the most tender and terrifying place i know_

**Author's Note:**

> Jon, after the fact: we have to be professional  
> also Jon, looking at Martin's hands and freckles: 😳😳😳
> 
> also it's a Leitner that brings out the innate desire that's already in someone, and not just a general makeout Leitner, so you know... nudges you all... you KNOW


End file.
